


Between Boot Treads

by ahimsabitches



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Boot Play, Dom/sub, Gun play, Joe is a total asshole, Kal is smitten, Kalashnikov likes it though, M/M, Warning: Immortan Joe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:19:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8358823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches
Summary: Joe teaches Kal a lesson.





	

He wouldn’t do it. 

Death howled black and hollow like rifle bores in his eyes. His knifeslash lips peeled back from his steel teeth. Joe heard the wet quiet click of bone on bullet, meant to scare him. It didn’t. 

Because he wouldn’t do it.

Kalashnikov’s favorite guns, his _girls_ , sunk into the softness of his unarmored belly, one tracking over each kidney. The right one dug into a ripe pustule, igniting a flare of pain at the spot. Joe set his jaw and betrayed none of his pain to Kalashnikov. It was easy, because he was good at it. He didn’t need the mask, which hung on a peg on the ragged stone wall behind them.

He wouldn’t do it.

Joe sighed like a mother tired of disciplining a recurrently errant child. “I won’t tell you again, Major. You _can’t. Have_. The _hangar_. Now stand the fuck down,” he said quietly.

Joe hadn’t precisely _meant_ to forge the forty-year-old chain running from his hand to Kalashnikov’s balls just like he hadn’t precisely _meant_ to begin the legend of the Immortan, but the good thing about men of weaker will was that they usually did that kind of work themselves. 

_No,_ he corrected himself. _Not weak will with the Major.  
_

Every inch of Kalashnikov’s gunslinger’s body roared murder, but he backed and the girls broke their deadly kisses on his belly. 

_Not weak will.  
_

Kalashnikov’s eyes were grey storms. His mouth twisted.

_Love.  
_

“Down,” Joe commanded. “Ask for your forgiveness like a good dog, and I may just give it to you.” _  
_

Kalashnikov scoffed. “Fuckin’ _Christ,_ Moore. Don’t pull that Redeemer shit on m– _HEY!”  
_

Quick as brother cobras, Joe’s hands shot out and snagged Kalashnikov’s guns– his _girls_. One of them burrowed into the side of Kalashnikov’s neck and the other dove down his throat. Joe heard a tiny grinding sound as the barrel knocked a few bullet teeth from their sockets. Kalashnikov fell to his knees as if he’d been shot, a high, soft whine escaping from him.

But the light in his eyes was not just fear.

“ _Beg for forgiveness and your miserable wasted **life** while you’re at it, you goddamn pit-digging piece of **shit**_!” Joe threw his weight into the guns, driving Kalashnikov to his belly. He could do nothing but gurgle around the gun gagging him. “I don’t give a jolly _fuck_ in a thunderstorm how many years we’ve known each other, Major; you do _not_ invite yourself into _my_ house and make demands of _me!”_

He hadn’t precisely meant to end up the Redeemer Immortan, but he’d be jackfucked if he’d let anyone, even the man who loved him– _especially_ the man who loved him– forget it now.

Joe ripped the guns away and drove a heavy buckled boot into his warbrother’s skinny gut, aiming between the bandoliers crossing his body. A flashbang of bitter rage sizzled up Joe’s spine when his boot connected with a hard, wiry flatness. Kalashnikov coughed and curled around the hit like a pillbug, spitting silver and white teeth. Unbidden and unwelcome, the thought nagged at him like a gnat at his ear: _he’s the youngest the fittest even though I breathe pure air and I make him eat lead-seasoned dinners he’s still fitter he’ll outlive me he’ll survive he’ll survive he’s still strong he’s still strong_

The growl ground in Joe’s chest like the Peacemaker’s great turning treads and this time his boot met Kalashnikov’s face with a soft, meaty _thuk!_ Kalashnikov moaned and rolled away. 

“No,” Joe rasped, and used the toe of his boot to nudge Kalashnikov’s craggy face around. “You look at me.” He did not squat, because he did not trust his knees to lift him back up again. So he loomed between Kalashnikov and the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, a planet of a man, eclipsing the light behind him, which threw his bonewhite hair into a frizzy corona. 

Or halo.

“ _Look_ at me, Major.” Joe twisted his foot, grinding the ball of his boot against Kalashnikov’s mouth. Kalashnikov writhed like a bug on its back but never took his wide gunbore eyes from Joe’s skyblue ones. 

Joe lifted his foot. Kalashnikov’s mouth was a chewed-up red hole between his chin and nose. It opened and closed soundlessly. A smear of bright, wet blood screamed against the dusty no-color of his boot. He peeled his lips back from his teeth, his nose wrinkling in an animal snarl. “Clean up the goddamn mess you made and I’ll forgive you.” He held his foot over the ruin of Kalashnikov’s mouth, and a jerky, bloodsmeared tongue poked out and began to lick. 

Kalashnikov rolled, groaning piteously, and hoisted himself up on his elbows to get a better angle on Joe’s boot. Joe let him lick like a thirsty dog, even though his tongue was bloody and his mouth was bloody and all he was doing was smearing the blood and dirt around, Joe let him lick. 

Because he _wanted_ to.

Joe wasn’t a _bad_ man after all.

After a while, Joe pulled his foot back. As if on a creaky, ancient hinge, Kalashnikov’s head rose. His eyes were bright and avid in his bloody face. Joe glared down his aquiline nose at Kalashnikov and watched his adam’s apple, thrown into sharp prominence by the upward crane of his neck, bob and dip. Joe guessed there was also a _prominence_ at the front of Kalashnikov’s trousers.

“Dammit, Moore, I’m sorry. There. I fuckin’ said it. Happy?”

But from the flapping, dripping hole of his mouth, it sounded like _Dammih, Murr, ‘m shrry. Bere. I fugg’n sheddit. Habbee?_

A smile, broad and dangerous, grew like a scalpel cut across Joe’s face. “Put your goddamn teeth back in your face, Major. You sound like a drunk fucked a broken tractor.”

Joe let Kalashnikov’s guns clatter carelessly to the ground, turned on his heel and strode toward the door without looking back. He didn’t need to. He’d seen the smitten puppy look on his face so often it was etched onto his skull. In turns it empowered him and sickened him–that naked, sorrowful adoration. Joe had always thought it looked out of place on his bullet-shaped face.

The door clicked cleanly shut behind him.


End file.
